Writing is my favorite thing, except for moments like now, which are made for Snuggies and hot drinks, especially hot drinks like Theraflu. Even moving my hands to the keyboard is an effort; I wonder if I have fingers, or a collection of ten-pound weights attached to the end of my arms. But I refuse to let it beat me. I try to get in an hour or two of writing/editing/etc. every day, and four or more on weekends, even if I don’t feel like it.
On days like today, when I very much don’t feel like it, I know I’m going to edit the heck of anything I put on paper, but getting something down is the important thing. It can be changed, twisted, deleted, or burned at the stake later on. That’s the good thing about writing—nothing’s permanent until after someone else reads it.
Lack of desire is not usually a problem for me. Normally I’d rather write than do anything else, except maybe breathe. (That’s my problem today. Breathing ain’t so easy, so it takes precedence over EVERYTHING. Ugh.) There have been a couple moments—okay, more than moments—when all ambition has abandoned me. During two periods of major depression, it was a year before I again picked up a pen. Once I did, both times I realized that not writing had been part of the problem all along. It is an outlet, a relief, a pressure valve. Not writing for me is not healthy.
If nothing else, it’s a good way to get revenge without anyone even knowing. Heeheeheeheeheeeeeeee.
Mostly, though, it is an escape, a way to get out of my own head, even my own skin, for a while. My female characters, though always flawed in some way (over sensitive, impulsive, depressive, etc.) tend to be strong, something I’ve never seen myself as. In all but one case the male characters are . . . not even human. Hmmm. Freud and Jung would LOVE me.
And I’ve begun babbling. Blame the fever. The chills have started anyway, I think it’s time for me to stop before I say something I regret. Or it simply turns into gibberish, which is also a distinct possibility today.
Good luck, my fellow writers, in all you do, be it self-publishing or seeking a traditional route. May you find your editorial soul mate.
Good writing, all.